Merry Christmas everyone! Hope you've had an amazing day!
Here's another chapter for you. Only about another three or four with this one.
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Enjoy~
It's around two months when Dean finally finds a lead, and it comes from the most unexpected of places. And, although it's been two fucking months and Dean is nowhere near content with that, he's probably the most grateful person on the planet right then.
The bunker has been quiet, the stench of oldened whiskey occupying the air in a heavy, lingering odor. Dean didn't know how much life Sam brought to the place when he was here, but now, he finds himself drowning in his own mind and the silence is too unbearable on his shoulders. His mother tries to comfort him a lot of the time, bringing small gifts of blankets and food and words of promise. He's quick to dust those off though, because only hell knows if Sam's getting any of those three amenities right now. It's nauseating to think about.
The last time any of them had disappeared off the plane of existence was the time where Dean wound up fighting for his life every second of every day. What scares him the most is when Cas says that Sam is now...gone. Not as in dead gone—Dean doesn't think he could handle that—but as in no more praying, no more images, no more pleading.
So, when someone comes by their doorstep and slips a piece of paper with an address and a note, he nearly falls to his knees in relief. He recognizes the handwriting and he recognizes the slang, and knows he will forever be in debt to this person, no matter how much in pains him.
You're losing your mind, Dean. I can't have that. We need to find Lucifer, dumbass, not wallow over people who are gone. So, go fetch Moose, be a mother-hen, and let's get back on track.
~C
In fact, he can't really remember much of the time after in which he had read those sacred words. At that point, he was relentlessly thanking God and not even caring that He wasn't listening, because whatever Chuck was doing, none of it concerned Earth. Or Sam, who has been in the vicious clutches of the British these entire eight weeks.
Posture strong and dominant for the first time in a long while, Dean walks into the common room of the bunker with a hopeful smile on his face. It doesn't necessarily reach his eyes, but it's enough for now, and most definitely enough for his family to recognize that something has happened. Something good.
His mother stands up from the seat she has been occupying, and blinks at him expectantly. Cas stares over her shoulder when Dean hands her the note and doesn't say a word.
When her eyes have finished tracking she laughs in a hysteric relief, Cas murmuring bits and pieces of thanks underneath his breath to the demon who had proposed a way for them to get back their beloved family member. The atmosphere is auspicious.
"I can get a few hunter friends of mine to help. Those who have a bone to pick with the British as well. We can't go in there with the three of us; unfortunately, they've got way too many resources, but with a few numbers I think we may have a chance," his mother tells him.
Dean nods apprehensively, hesitant about that. He needs his brother now, and he's not sure how much longer he can wait. Mary reads his mind though, saying, "I'll get them here as soon as I can. Don't go and do anything stupid."
Of course, Dean assures her and casts her an understanding look, but when she's gone through the door leading to the bedrooms, he grabs Cas, shrugs on his coat, and devilishly grins. "C'mon." He grabs his friend's shoulder, drags him to the stairwell, and says, "Let's go get my brother back."
The door clangs shut loudly.
Sam knows something is wrong but he's not sure what is. His mind is fuzzy and things are a lot less clear than they used to be, but he feels...fine. Just fine.
The man says he needs to stay quiet. Makes him watch the girl that's organizing things in the trunk of her car, singing a song while shaking her head to the beat. She's putting various guns and knives in seperate storage units, ensuring everything is in order. Sam looks at the man.
He cocks his head in question, then looks down at the sharpened blade he holds in his hand. "Are we…?" he trails off, letting the question ask itself. Are we supposed to be doing this? Are we supposed to be killing her?
For a brief second he feels heedful, wonder encasing his mind and morals coming back to him swiftly. Ketch looks alarmed, before he suddenly commands, "Sam."
He tries his absolute best not to look, to avoid eye-contact and remain hold of this moment of clarity, but it's nearly impossible. His eyes meet Ketch's icy glare, and he shakes his head in submission, however much it pains him.
"I am the lock."
Sam feels his mouth moving without his consent. "I am the key." Suddenly, all those previous inquiries are gone, and he moves toward the girl without a second thought, knowing exactly what he needs to do.
Sam subconsciously notes that she is very pretty. Not that it matters, though. There's an itch in his mind, telling him things he should be doing, and he probably isn't pleasing Ketch too much by standing there like a dumbass. He walks toward her determinedly, chin up and faux-smile in place.
She's startled when she turns to see him there, reaching for her gun in a motion that is practiced many times over. Surprise morphs into confusion, though, when she lowers her firearm and says softly, "Sam? Sam Winchester?"
He didn't realize he was so popular. "Yeah. How are you, Aleshia?" He recites the name off the slip of paper Ketch gave him.
She smiles slightly. "I'm good. Just finished up helping some people with a haunting. How about you? Where have you been?"
Something tells him to stop sweet-talking and get on with his task. He obliges. "It doesn't matter, honestly. A few places here, a few places there. Lots of moving. Now, tell me, have you ever heard of the British Men of Letters?"
A scowl comes across her features, and she bites her lip. She brings her voice to a whisper. "Are you working with them?" she asks.
The lie comes easily. "No! No, definitely not." To him, he thinks he sells it well. "I was just coming here to make sure you weren't, neither."
"Working with them?" She laughed. "After what they did to you in that basement a bit ago? Yeah, guess what. Every hunter knows about that. Nobody ain't going to join them unless they're stupid enough."
A sense of revelation washes upon him, and he sighs. This girl wasn't budging at all, and he knows that she won't. It was a strange feeling. He has no will of thought, no control over his actions. It's just a constant persona of serenity—of compliance. The old him would've told Aleshia to run and never look back. Now, he's being instructed things and he's fine with that. It feels good to follow for once, instead of bearing the weight of everybody's decisions.
He unsheathes the knife silently. "Thanks," he says, and moves to shake her hand. "I appreciate it."
Aleshia shrugs. "It's whatever. Good luck out there."
He smiles. Then, as she turns away and goes back to her sorting, he slips the blade behind her neck and pulls. Her chokes are quiet, gurgling on her own blood and unable to breathe. Sam frowns. This isn't right. Something—
Ketch stands beside him, returning from his cover.
"I am the lock."
He pauses, looking at the body.
"And I am the key."
tbc